


Once I was Real

by HappyCamper27



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Allen needs hugs, Character Death, Kinda, Magic, dark themes, seriously, this is so messed up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyCamper27/pseuds/HappyCamper27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moon is white above him, painted against a black sky. The trees crook their limbs like fingers, calling him off the path. He just stares up, up at that white crescent moon.<br/>"Death," he murmurs. "So that is what this place is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once I was Real

**Author's Note:**

> This fic...I don't know where it came from. It just decided to be something.  
> It was half inspired by both FruitPastilles' _To Live and Breathe and Live Again ___and cywscross' _i am addicted to death (so remind me what it's like to live) ___, though I have tried very much to have this piece have my spin on the main theme.  
>  The title comes from 'Once' by Bradley Caleb Kane.

The first time it happens, he is tall and big and adult, but he won’t remember it anyway. He has his red hair, and one of his best friends is bleeding out in front of him, golden eyes bleary with a sort of tired, quiet resignation.

His own eyes, a reversal of his friend's in their liquid silver, narrow.

“You were stupid,” he says sharply, crouching. Golden eyes regard him wearily.

“I couldn’t do it,” his friend says quietly, and there is something so very close to defeat in his eyes. “I couldn’t kill them all.”

“And now you’re dying.” It isn’t a question. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” he sighs, and abruptly comes to a decision. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to his friend’s.

“What are you doing?” his friend demands, a flicker of panic coming into those golden orbs.

“What I have to,” he says. Realization dawns in his friend’s eyes.

“You can’t!” he insists. “Cross—Mana, they—”

“I can, and I _will_ ,” he states lowly. “It isn’t your place to tell me what to do with my power, Neah.”

“Just let me die!” Neah snarls. “I deserve it, for not saving him! For not _seeing_ —”

“It is my power, Neah.” He says sharply. “And it is my choice to say who deserves it. Don’t try and talk me out of it, because it won’t work.”

“But, you’ll—”

“I know.”

“That’s idiotic!”

“I know.”

“They need you,” Neah whispers.

“They need you more,” he says inexorably, and Neah sighs. He can feel the weakness in the movement.

“You really need to stop thinking so lowly of yourself, you know that?”

“Hmph,” he snorts. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

And then he _reaches_ in, wrapping his power around Neah’s being and soul and memories, and he _pulls._ Neah snarls lowly, but by then there is nothing that can stop him. It is painful, he knows.

But it is better than the darkness of dying.

His Innocence mutters lowly in the back of his mind, growling at the place where he has deposited Neah’s _being_ and _memories_ before subsiding.

Neah breathes lowly in the back of his mind, even as he disentangles himself from the limp former-body of his friend.

_I suppose I should say thank you,_ he murmurs lowly, even as he sinks into the darkness of a sleep that they both knew would last for many more years to come.

A smile curls at his lips, and he prods the being.

_Sleep,_ he commands, and is glad that Neah obeys with little protest. Because while the first part was painful, the worst is still yet to come.

The first wave of pain is like acid flooding his veins, and he bites back a cry even as he moves away from the limp now-corpse that Neah once inhabited. It would do little good to save his friend’s life and then die just as soon.

But soon he forgets all of that as the second wave of pain ripples through him, and he does cry out. It is like acid flooding him and being skinned alive with salt being rubbed into the raw wounds all at once.

In a word, _agony_.

But it is worth it, and he lets himself succumb to the crushing darkness of oblivion.

~OooO~

The second time it happens, he is tiny and small and fragile, and he, again, won’t remember it. He is a baby, lying out in the chill of winter, and he is starving.

A warmth flares lowly in his mind, trying to comfort the child, and the baby has so very little energy left to do more than let the cold and hunger sweep him away into a sleep that is everlasting and colder than the winter that is stealing his life away.

Liquid silver eyes close slowly, and a final breath steals its way out of the infant that the villagers have called _demon_ and _monster_.

Not long after, those silver eyes open once more, un-remembering of a quiet, lonely, and warm figure hovering over him in that dream-like place he had fallen into.

~OooO~

 

The third time, he does remember. He is small, still, and scrawny and starved and _hated_ , but he tries to ignore it. It is late autumn, and the winds are chilly and the water of the rivers is cold as ice.

He is sitting on the edge of a ridge that falls into the river, watching a group of others. The villagers haven’t noticed him, and he can’t help but wonder why whenever they see him, their faces curl with hatred and fury and fear, so very unlike when they look at others. He huffs, blowing a lock of his vibrantly red hair up and out of his eyes.

Across the river, villagers laugh and socialize, eyes bright and merry, and the children play their happy games. It makes a cold, bitter feeling well up in his belly. He is angry, and he makes to turn away.

And then they are there, big and hulking and so much bigger than he is. They leer down at him, and his eyes widen.

“Look ‘ere,” one of them remarks. “The little demon!”

“What’cha reckon we should do wit’ ‘im?” another asks cruelly. The first gains a cold gleam in his eye.

“Demons like him oughta be purified for the Lord, don’t you think? Letting something this horrific wander around…we oughta bring him back into the light, shouldn’t we?”

And then there is a boot on his shoulder, inexorably pushing him off the edge. Others start pushing at him, and he tries to fight back, crying out in fear and pain. But it is for naught.

He falls, and his breath catches painfully in his chest. And then he hits the water, and he shrieks. He is frozen for a moment, staring up at the churning waters of the surface above, and then he struggles to the surface. The current is harsh and punishing, and he can’t keep his head above water for more than a few seconds.

The cold is paralyzing, seeping into his body like death itself, and he finds it harder and harder to surface every time he is pulled under. His lungs are burning like fire, and soon he can barely move his limbs. And he is terrified and rejecting and fighting, but there is little he can do.

The sensation of water flooding his mouth as he reflexively takes a breath and then _can’t breathe_ is horrifying, and haunts him even as he falls into the blackness.

~OooO~

He wakes up, jerking into a sitting position. Adrenaline pumps through him, and he jumps to his feet. And then he takes a moment to look around.

It is nighttime, and he glances down at himself.

There is something _wrong._

He steps forward on the path laid out ahead of him, hesitant. Then he takes another, and then another. Soon, he is walking the path in the dark forest, with the huge crescent moon shining down on him. He looks around at the trees; they are huge and leaning and decrepit, but he isn’t afraid.

There is _something wrong_.

He eventually comes to a lake, and he stares down into the black depths of it, where the moon reflects hugely. He stares at his own tiny, hollow-cheeked reflection. But it isn’t his reflection at all; instead, it is a grinning, white-suited shadow staring back at him. He reaches down to touch the water.

There _is something_ w _r_ **o** n ** _g_**.

The shadow’s hand lifts, mirroring his own. Then it _reaches through_ , grasping his wrist as it smiles it’s too-big smile.

_It’s not time for you, yet_ , it seems to say. _Shoo._

And he stumbles back, released suddenly. He bumps into something else, and he turns around only to be confronted with a being as pure as white snow, tall and lanky.

_There is s **o**_ **m** _e_ t ** _h_** i _n **g**_ w _r_ **o** n ** _g_**.

_Peace,_ the silver mask of the being seems to say. _I mean no harm, dearest._

He tries to speak, but no words come forth. The white being stretches out a long fingered hand, brushing those soft fingertips against his cheek.

_They have not been kind to you,_ the being observes. _I wish I could help you, dearest, but they would not take kindly to me._ The being sighs. _Nor is it time for you to be found. You must go, dearest; we will always be here; you must_ live.

And with that, the being pushes him right into the pool, and he falls into the chill waters. The huge crescent moon taunts him, and the echoes of the shadow’s laughter rings in his ears as he sinks.

**_T_** **h** _e_ r **e** _i_ **s** _s **o**_ **m** _e_ t ** _h_** i _n **g**_ w _r_ **o** n ** _g._**

_But he can’t quite put his finger on it._

_And then, when he wakes again, vomiting water, he pushes thoughts of white beings and taunting shadows from his mind._

_He can’t think of such things._

_He_ won’t _think of such things._

_(And maybe, just a little, something inside him fractures.)_

~OooO~

It is when he is slightly bigger, slightly stronger, that he leaves. He flees the little town that he has lived in for the past few years, and he doesn’t look back.

He wanders, for a good long while. It takes a lot of practice, finding what he can and can’t eat without getting really sick, and his belly is always growling. He is always hungry.

But he keeps running, and never looks back.

Eventually, he finds a circus. They let him in, give him food and a roof over his head with only one condition. He must work for them, handing out fliers for their performances, going around the games and winning them to prevent people from thinking that they were rigged.

It isn’t so bad; it is hard work, especially given that his left arm still refuses to move, and that he must always keep it hidden with the coat and gloves that one of the performers has given him. But it is worth it, and he stays with the circus.

And then Cosimo comes.

He is nasty and leering and brutal, and he cringes away from the man’s foul breath as he leans over him. The man had joined only a few months after he had, and had begun by asserting a dominance that is only enforced by the fact that most of them are too weak or afraid to do anything. To act out against him would draw the ringmaster’s attention, and that is something _nobody_ wants.

“You little demon!” Cosimo snarls. “Thought you could charm my woman away from me, did you?”

In all actuality, he had only been walking into a tent he thought was empty, with the intent of cleaning up as he had been told to do, only to find Cosimo leering over one of the ladies that performed with the circus. She had taken the chance to run, and Cosimo had turned his drunken rage on him.

He is left there, twitching feebly on the ground as his broken ribs dig into his lungs. He gasps for air, but none comes. And he fights, fightsfights _fights_ because he _doesn’t want to die_ —

—and the darkness swallows him whole.

~OooO~

He is back in that forest, with the crescent moon shining above him. The white being is in front of him, and he thinks he can see something like pain or sadness in the being’s immovable silver mask.

_Oh, dearest_ , it seems to say. _You cannot continue to return here._

His lips curl, and he wants to demand if the being actually thinks he’s doing it on purpose.

_You must return,_ it murmurs, _and you must live._ It pauses. _But you do not have to return quite yet, I think. Come, dearest._

He finds himself being pulled along, and they just walk. The trees still loom sinisterly out of the pale darkness, but he pays no attention, keeping his eyes on the being.

“Why?” he finally forces out of his unresponsive mouth. The being stops and turns to him.

_Because,_ it says after a moment. _To send you back into that pain so soon would be far crueler._

So they walk. They walk through the forest, and the crescent moon shines over them. There is no sound aside from his own breathing the sound of his feet on the path. But even those are muted, and it sends a shiver down his spine. Eventually, they come to the lake.

_You must return now, dearest,_ the being says. _You must_ live.

He stares at the dark waters, and even his instinctive terror of the cold, clinging substance is muted. He shivers.

_Would you like me to do it for you?_ The being asks, and he knows just what it is asking. He balks at the idea.

“No,” he forces out, and the white being steps back.

_As you wish, dearest._

He steps forward, and stops just as he is at the edge of the lake. The shadow leers up at him. _Well?_ It seems to say. _Are you going to do it, already?_

He scowls, and he takes a deep breath. He steps forward, off of the edge. He falls into the cold water, and he is sucked down into it, like quicksand. His breath comes just as easily as it did above water, though, and the shadow snickers.

_As if this is real water,_ it derides.

And then red flashes before his eyes, and he is no longer in that not-water but breathing air and he _hurts_. But he gathers himself, and sits up. He is alive.

He isn’t sure he wants to be.

~OooO~

Over the next few years, he finds himself falling into that dark forest several more times. Most are because of Cosimo; the _bastard_ loves attacking others, and seems to get a perverse enjoyment out of taking his jealousy and rage on others.

But others are far more innocuous. Falling off a ladder, tripping into the path of a panicked horse—those are painful, but they are infinitely better than Cosimo.

After a few of those visits, the white being looks at him with a sadness that he can’t understand. His hand drifts to his red, scaly arm, and the white being seems to _smile_ so sadly that it makes his chest hurt. He has long since given up on caring for others, since they all seem set on hating him so much, but he can’t bring himself to hate this white being. The white being sighs, and then tugs him along again, as usual.

Unlike usual, the being begins to talk, and he finds himself enraptured by the tale. The being speaks of a boy-noble, a wealthy child, who becomes friends with a pair of twins who have golden eyes like liquid gold. The being speaks of the mischief the three get into, of the games they would play and the pranks they would pull, and then they are at the lake again.

He sighs, disappointed at not being able to hear the end of the tale. He stops once again at the edge of the lake, and looks back at the white being.

“Thanks,” he forces out, and the white being _smiles_.

_You’re welcome, dearest._

And then he plunges into the water, and like always, the water is cold and clinging and almost-air, and the shadow’s voice echoes in his ears.

_Do try to stay alive longer this time?_ It says, and he shuts his eyes against the blackness swimming in his vision. It isn’t like he _chooses_ to fall into the dark forest with its bright crescent moon shining in the black sky.

When he wakes again, stiff and pained, it is to a nickname. _Red_ , they whisper, and the name takes. He’s no longer the nameless waif from a nameless town who spits profanity and violence like they are going out of style; he is _Red_ , the runaway waif in a circus who is vicious and hateful and lashes out at the world before it can hurt him.

He is _Red_ , and he simultaneously hates and likes the new name. He’s never had one before, the cruelty of others denying him such a thing, and it is a novel thing. But he hates it, hateshates _hates_ it because is reminds him of the lame, red, scaly arm that is attached to his body, of the very thing that makes the world turn on him.

He is _Red_.

It doesn’t stop Cosimo from turning on him a month or so later and unleashing his fury.

But it is something.

~OooO~

Mana is insane. This, Red knows. Or is it _Allen_ , now? The name that the crazy clown has bestowed upon _Red_ rings in his ears every time the clown calls him. But he closes his eyes, and lets the insane man call him _Allen_ , even though he is still _Red_.

The clown has his good days; in fact, most of his days are good days. Mana is usually coherent, if clearly a bit unhinged, and calls _Red_ ‘ _Allen’_. They play at being clowns, balancing on a tightrope strung across a chasm, and if they fall everything is lost. It’s a game, and _Red_ plays it as he knows how: viciously, and without mercy. He refuses to fall, even though Mana is almost falling so very often.

And then there are the bad days. The days where Mana confuses _Red_ for someone called _Neah_ , and Mana’s golden eyes are glazed and unseeing. The days when Mana clings to Red and begs him not to go, begs him to _stay with me, brother!_

It is unsettling, and Red doesn’t know how to deal with it. Eventually, it is Christmas again, and Mana hands him a package. Red stares at it.

“It’s your birthday, Allen~” Mana laughs, and Red sighs and opens the package. A red ribbon lays there, innocently. Red stares at it for a moment. “Do you like it?”

Red suppresses a sigh and bites back the cruel words that want to spill from his throat. He doesn’t even know what a _birthday_ really is, because he’s never had one. But he can’t say that, because Mana’s face would do that weird thing where he stared at Red like a kicked puppy who was wondering why you would do such a horrible and cruel thing to it.

“Yeah,” he says instead, and he takes out the ribbon and ties it around his neck like a tie. “I do.”

“That’s wonderful!” Mana gushes. “Happy eighth birthday, Allen!”

Red forces a smile that maybe isn’t so forced. He doesn’t really know how old he is. But eight, huh? It’s a good enough number, he supposes. Mana has to get back to work soon, attracting customers for this new circus they’re currently with, and Red has to go and help get everything together for tonight’s performance, so Mana just ruffles his hair and turns away, dancing out into the crowd with his painted smile.

He looks down at his hand, his left arm limp at his side. He doesn’t know how many years he spent with Cosimo’s circus, or even how many years he spent before that, small and skinny and too weak to run from the nameless village that had hated him. But he doesn’t really care, either. Time is pointless, a passing of something he has no power over. If Mana wants to call him eight years old, then he wouldn’t argue. Especially not since the clown would turn that kicked puppy look on him the moment he protests.

He steadfastly ignores the creeping warmth in his belly that Mana had put there with his gift.

~OooO~

It has been a while since he has last fallen into here, this dark forest. The last time he can remember was before he had met Mana, and he wonders at that. Travelling with the insane clown is safer than he had thought.

The white being laughs.

_Indeed, dearest,_ it murmurs. _Mana is safer than being alone._

And then the white being grasps his hand, and they are walking again, the white crescent moon stark against the pitch-black sky.

“He wants to adopt me.” The words flow freely from his mouth, and he blinks. They are the first words that he hasn’t had to force from his mouth in this place.

_It is your choice, dearest,_ the being says quietly. _I cannot make it for you._

They are silent for a few moments that seem like an eternity.

“Tell me a story?” he asks, and the white being laughs.

_Of course. As you wish, dearest._

And it begins to weave a tale that Red cannot help but find himself enraptured with. The being speaks of a great magician, who can wield powerful magic, but warns of the prices of such magic; _there is always a price_ , the being says, _for every kind of magic, no matter how big or small. Balance must be kept._

The being tells Red about how the magician had used his magic to help others, to protect them or to aid them in their troubles. And then they are at the lake again, and Red frowns, because he wants to hear more about the magician and the noble-boy and the twins, but he can’t because he has to go back now.

The white being sighs.

_Be safe, dearest, and_ live.

And Red casts himself into that not-water that clings so horribly to him. The shadow is cold and distant, and he wonders why it is missing the chance to taunt him over his shortcomings.

Nevertheless, Red wakes up stiff and pained, and then Mana is there, bright and not-quite-sane.

“Come on, Allen~” the clown singsongs. “Everyone’s waiting!”

And then he is being dragged off to help with the performance and into reality once more, and his mind casts away all thoughts of that dark forest and not-lake and bright crescent moon.

_I am alive,_ Red thinks, and the words are not bitter in his mouth. They are almost sweet and strong, and he can’t help the smile that blossoms across his lips. He is alive.

It is a happy thing.

~OooO~

He’s alive. _He’s alive._

Mana’s dead, lying bloody in the street.

_Why is he alive?_

The carriage—it should have hit him. It _would have_ hit him. But Mana had suddenly been there, pushing and strong, and Red had fallen back and away—

Part of him wonders when Mana will _wake up_ , because Red’s been run over several times, and he’s always _woken up_ , but the harsher, more cynical part of him _knows_. Knows that Mana’s eyes will never move again, and that the crazy clown will never smile that weird smile at him ever again.

And he wants to scream, because it’s _not fair_ ; why can he _wake up_ and Mana can’t? He doesn’t notice the hot tears falling down his face, even as others come and take Mana away and lead him along. All he can think of is _Mana is deaddeaddeaddead—_

When it is all done with, Mana buried in the cold winter earth and the funeral done, finished, the circus moving on without Red or Mana, Red sits there, staring at Mana’s headstone.

It _hurts_ , and he doesn’t know _why it hurts_ , but it’s almost like salt on an open wound, bitter and cruel. Mana had been—Mana had been everything. Red knows this now, and the bitterness and grief _hurts_ , because Mana had been the only one to look at _Red_ and think _I like you_. Because Red is a freak, and he is harsh and cruel, and people don’t like that.

And then a shadow wraps over him, and a surely impossible man asks him a question that dooms him.

“Would you like me to bring him back?”

Because Red is _alive_.

Those words are harsh and bitter in his mouth. So he opens his mouth, and he calls, because he doesn’t want to be alone, not after having _someone_.

“ _Mana!”_

And his doom falls over him like smoke.

~OooO~

He is in the dark forest, the moon shining above. The trees loom treacherously from the shadows, and Red stares up at the white being with dead eyes.

“He’s dead,” he says, and the white being tilts its head. “He’s dead and I’m not. It _should have been me._ ”

_But it was not,_ the white being says quietly. _It was not, and will you so easily throw away the gift that your clown sacrificed himself to give you on that day?_

A sob breaks free from his throat, and he curls in on himself.

“Worst birthday gift _ever_ ,” he sobs with bitter humor and a near masochistic delight at the pain the words cause him. The white being sighs, and before he knows what is happening, he is being picked up and carried.

It is warm, and Red shivers as he pushes back the sobs that curl in his chest.

_You may cry, dearest. No one here will judge you,_ the white being murmurs, and Red’s face crumples as the sobs rip out of him once more. He doesn’t know how long they are like that, but eventually Red’s eyes are itchy and his throat sore from crying, and he is exhausted and numb.

“I don’t want to go back,” he whispers into the white being’s chest, and the white being huffs a soft laugh.

_You can stay for a while longer, I think, dearest. Would you like me to tell you a story?_

“Yes,” he says, because those stories are strong and they might be enough to take away the pain for a little while. The white being laughs, and stands.

_As you wish, dearest_ , the white being says, taking slow, careful steps along the path. Then the white being begins to weave a tale, speaking of that great and powerful magician, and how he was friends with two brothers. They had many adventures, but eventually the two brothers fell into a trap that neither could escape; and once one of the brothers realized what they had done, he tried to free his brother from the trap, only to realize that his brother had been corrupted to the point of no return. But the free-brother was too weak to fight his brother, and fled.

_The magician found him, wounded and close to death,_ the white being murmurs evenly. _And decided to give him a gift. He saved him. But there was a price, there is always a price. And even as the magician lost all that he had ever been in return for his gift, he smiled. Because he had done right, and had saved his friend._

Like me and Mana, Red thinks, before he stops. He can’t bear to face the world alone again, and without Mana there is no one to be his protective shield any more. As much as he hates it, he has half-forgotten how to protect himself if he ever even knew in the first place.

_You must leave, soon, dearest,_ the white being murmurs. _You must_ live _yet, it is not your time._

“I don’t want to,” Red breathes, and the white being sighs sadly.

_Sometimes it is not a case of want, dearest. Sometimes, it is a case of_ must. _Will you go now? Or must I help you?_

Red closes his eyes, because he isn’t ready. He never will be.

“I’ll do it,” he says. And as he slips into the water, he knows that _Red_ won’t see the world again, not truly, because _Red_ isn’t ready and never will be, and Red is selfish enough to refuse the world because of the pain it causes him.

So when he wakes up, it is not _Red_ who sees the world.

_Allen_ blinks around, white hair stark and snowy as he takes the place of  _Red_ seamlessly.

Because he is not  _Red_ , and _Red_ is not  _Allen_.

_Allen_ will protect  _Red_ , just like Mana had protected  _Red_.

( _And maybe, just a little, he fractures again.)_


End file.
